The decision

This chapter asks you to decide something, and I know who I'm asking. It comes late because at the start it would have sounded like being told to hurry up, and you've heard that before. By now you've seen that waiting is an option with costs, and that another lap mostly turns up nothing new. You've seen that you can't feel sure in advance, and that the people who decide easily aren't wiser than you. They just put less in the spreadsheet.

Here's the rule I'd suggest. Put it in your own words if you like.

I write down what the choice must do, I set a date, I pick the first option that does it, and then I stop looking.

It has five parts, and each answers a chapter.

The default goes on the list. Whatever happens if I don't choose is an option, and I write down what another year of it costs.

Musts, and no more than four. I decide what the choice has to do before I compare anything. I check yes or no, and I don't score.

Three options at most, and questions before research. A new option has to replace an old one. I look something up only when I can write the question down and the answer could change what I'd pick.

A date that fits the size. I give small decisions minutes, middling ones days, and large ones a few weeks. On the date, I choose with what I know. If it's level, I toss the coin and watch how I react.

Closed means closed. I act within a day, I put the other options away, and I reopen the question only for a new fact or at the review.

You don't have to start with the course. In fact I'd start with the smallest thing on your list from chapter 1. Pick the sofa this week. Write four musts, check the two candidates, order the one that passes, and recycle the samples. It'll take twenty minutes, and you'll get to see yourself do it. After that, take the next item.

It helps to plan for the moments when the loop will try to restart. Peter Gollwitzer and Paschal Sheeran pooled ninety-four tests of plans in the form "when X happens, I'll do Y" and found that they make people more likely to follow through. A plan like this works because you've decided what to do before the difficult moment comes. Three are worth writing down.

When I notice I'm going over a decision without a written question in front of me, I'll stop and write down either the question or the date.

When someone mentions a new option after I've got three, I'll ask myself which one it replaces, and if the answer is none, I'll let it go.

When I wake up doubting a choice I've made, I'll ask whether there's a new fact. If there isn't, I'll wait for the review.

I'll be honest about what to expect, and this is my expectation and not a finding. The first few decisions made this way will feel abrupt, even reckless, because you're used to feeling you've exhausted the question before you move. The wobble will come. Some choices will turn out middling, as some always would have. You won't suddenly feel sure. What you should find is that the questions end, that your evenings come back, and that after a few months you begin a decision expecting to finish it. I can't promise you'll choose well every time. I do think you'll choose about as well as you did before, a good deal sooner, and you'll spend less of your life waiting.